Jean Sibelius and His World

by Grimley, Daniel M.

  —Daniel M. Grimley

  NOTES

  1. The film is currently available at the Finnish Broadcasting Corporation’s website (http://www.yle.fi/elavaarkisto/?s=s&g=8&ag=47&t=117&a=8909), and is discussed in Jean Sibelius Kodissaan—i sitt hem—at Home, edited by Jussi Brofeldt (Helsinki: Teos, 2010). I am grateful to Jussi Brofeldt for his assistance in accessing this footage.

  2. Into Konrad Inha was part of Sibelius’s circle of friends in the 1890s, and a keen member of the so-called Karelianists, who sought to recover evidence of Finnish folk traditions in the far east of the country. For a representative sample and discussion of Inha’s work, see I. K. Inha: Unelma maisemasta, ed. Taneli Eskola (Helsinki: Musta Taide, 2006).

  3. Accounts of the funeral ceremonies held following Sibelius’s death suggest that he still held this privileged symbolic place in Finnish public life, even in 1957. For a brief description, see Erik Tawaststjerna, Sibelius, vol. 3, 1914–1957, trans. Robert Layton (London: Faber and Faber, 1997), 331. Subsequent references to Tawaststjerna’s biography in this volume refer either to Robert Layton’s elegant but abridged English translation, or to Tawaststjerna’s Swedish/Finnish original, as indicated in the appropriate citation.

  4. Peter Davidson, The Idea of North (London: Reaktion Press, 2005), 8.

  PART I

  ESSAYS

  Sibelius and the Russian Traditions

  PHILIP ROSS BULLOCK

  To discuss the music of Jean Sibelius in the context of Russian culture and history is to broach complex questions of national identity and musical influence. Although Finland’s status between 1809 and 1917 as a Grand Duchy within the Russian Empire has been the subject of considerable recent work by revisionist historians, the policies of extreme Russification that were in place between 1899 and Finland’s eventual independence eighteen years later have tended to cast the debate in terms of how a small nation bravely won self-determination despite the predations of a vast and arrogant imperial power.1 This historiographical discourse has implications for our understanding of Sibelius’s music and personality too, since, as Glenda Dawn Goss suggests, the composer has long served as an icon of Finnish national consciousness: “The real Sibelius has been obscured . . . by the tendency to see him solely through a nationalistic lens. This view received powerful impetus in connection with Finland’s valiant and prolonged resistance to Russian domination, a resistance that Sibelius’s music came to symbolize in the world.”2 The consequences of this tendency can be seen in a Finnish review of one of the major Soviet-era publications on Sibelius. Although little about the 1963 biography by Alexander Stupel seems immoderate or controversial today,3 and indeed, many of its suggestions about Sibelius’s connections to Russian music have since been independently corroborated and further developed, Dmitry Hintze’s negative assessment of Sibelius’s influence on Russian composers from Rimsky-Korsakov to Rachmaninoff is symptomatic of an era when political factors affected attitudes in the writing of national history.4

  Notwithstanding such political considerations, many of the clichés that have come to be associated with Russian music as Europe’s perpetual “Other”—Oriental exoticism, emotional intensity, technical insufficiency, even, as in the case of the reputation of Pyotr Tchaikovsky, sexual deviance and effeminacy5—have meant that commentators have tended to downplay comparisons between Sibelius and Russian composers, preferring instead to incorporate Sibelius into the European mainstream. The posture adopted in Walter Niemann’s early writings—interpreted by James Hepokoski as “a priestlike gesture within the cultic institution intended to keep pure the sacred space of Germanic symphonism”—is a case in point.6 Although dismissive of Sibelius’s handling of the symphony, which he saw as nothing more than “an imitation of Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique in a Finnish dialect,”7 Niemann was nonetheless keen to emphasize Sibelius’s status as a composer with organic, Western-oriented links to Scandinavia rather than Finland’s occupying neighbor to the east. Crucially, for Niemann, Sibelius’s works were free from the emotional and structural shortcomings that were supposedly so characteristic of Tchaikovsky:

  Sibelius’s broad and expressive approach to melody frequently has an unmistakable affinity with that of Tchaikovsky, and as a symphonist, Sibelius has without question borrowed many ideas from the symphonies of the Russian master, above all the E-minor symphony and the Pathétique. Except that Sibelius is more reserved in his expression, less decorative, less contrived and sentimental, less differentiated than the Russian master, despite all of his striking intensity of emotion and Slavic fatalism. Against our will and as if hypnotized, we are at the mercy of the weak and sensual Russian. The stern and steely Finn appeals to heart and mind. You will search in vain in Sibelius for movements such as the half-barbarian finales of Tchaikovsky’s symphonies.8

  More unequivocal admirers of Sibelius’s music continued this trend by pointing out how his symphonies departed from Russian models on both temperamental and structural grounds. Cecil Grey’s argument that “the symphonies of Sibelius represent the highest point attained in this form since the death of Beethoven” rests on a concomitant dismissal of Russian music as “eastern rather than northern in geographical character and atmosphere.”9 Bengt de Törne, similarly keen to emphasize Sibelius’s Teutonic credentials, ultimately dismissed the importance of Tchaikovsky’s influence, seeing Sibelius as altogether more epic, virile, and self-possessed, and thus correspondingly free from the existential traits of the Russian soul: “Russian music is famous for its gloomy tints. Yet these magnificent sombre colours are essentially different from those of the North, being conditioned by the Slav atmosphere of submission, despair and death.”10 Any arguments in favor of Sibelius’s exclusively and essentially Nordic identity are, whether consciously or not, indebted to a whole set of stereotypes about the national and emotional character of Russian music.

  The situation has changed, of course, not least as a result of the publication of Erik Tawaststjerna’s critical biography.11 Not only did it paint a far more detailed picture of Sibelius’s life than had previously been available, it also began to overturn widespread assumptions about his musical origins. As Tim Howell writes:

  Erik Tawaststjerna has revealed that far from being a nationalist figure separated from mainstream European developments by living in his native Finland, Sibelius travelled extensively, was fully aware of current trends in music, thought, discussed and came to terms with the complex nature of twentieth-century composition and from various stylistic influences gradually formed a personal and highly original style.12

  Within this welcome development in Sibelius criticism, however, the influence of Russian music has been the subject of comparatively little detailed analysis, and figures such as Sibelius’s Russian violin teacher, Mitrofan Wasilieff, have only recently been restored to the historical record. As Goss argues: “The idea of a Russian’s helping to shape the national icon was more than most Finns could stand in the aftermath of the horrible events of the first half of the twentieth century.”13

  Thus the purpose of this essay is first to set out the broad political and historical context that shaped Russo-Finnish relations between 1809 and 1917, and second to consider the close personal, intellectual, and artistic ties that bound together cultural figures on both sides of the border, before then turning to an examination of the various ways in which Russian music played a profound role in Sibelius’s evolution as a Finnish and European composer.

  The Russian Empire and the Grand Duchy of Finland

  In trying to disentangle some of the myths surrounding Sibelius’s role in the development of Finnish national consciousness and the move to political self-determination, the best place to start is, ironically enough, one of his most obviously patriotic and overtly political works:Finlandia. Traditionally read as a protest against Russian domination, the work was subject to a highly politicized interpretation in which Sibelius himself was complicit:

  It was actually rather late that F
inlandia was performed under its final title. At the farewell concert of the Philharmonic Orchestra before leaving for Paris, when the tone-poem was played for the first time in its revised form, it was called “Suomi.” It was introduced by the same name in Scandinavia; in German towns it was called “Vaterland,” and in Paris “La Patrie.” In Finland its performance was forbidden during the years of unrest, and in other parts of the Empire it was not allowed to be played under any name that in any way indicated its patriotic character. When I conducted in Reval and Riga by invitation in the summer of 1904, I had to call it “Impromptu.”14

  However, as Harold Johnson argues, this was a rather dramatic and even questionable interpretation of the situation, and one, moreover, that was written several decades after the events described:

  It is true that at the concert to which the composer alluded the tone poem was officially listed on the programme as Suomi, a title that had no meaning for the Russians. But in all the newspapers it was listed as Finlandia. Just how late is “rather late” we cannot say. It is a matter of record, however, that Finlandia was performed under that title in Helsinki during November 1901 and through the remaining years when Finland was still a part of the Russian Empire. Had Governor General Bobrikov been interested, he could have purchased a copy of Finlandia from a local music store.15

  An investigation into the origins of Finlandia reveals a still more complicated story. The music that was to become Finlandia derives from the six Tableaux from Ancient History that were staged in Helsinki in November 1899. Ostensibly designed to raise money for the pensions of journalists, the tableaux offered, in Tawaststjerna’s words, “both moral and material support to a free press that was battling to maintain its independence in the face of Czarist pressure.”16 In them were depicted significant stages of Finland’s history, from the origins of the Kalevala and the baptism of the Finnish people by Bishop Henrik of Uppsala, to the sixteenth-century court of Duke John at Turku, and the events of the Thirty Years’ War and the Great Northern War (during which Finland was ravaged by Russian forces between 1714 and 1721, a period referred to as “The Greater Wrath”). As Derek Fewster suggests, this particular historical scene may have been interpreted as an instance of anti-Russian sentiment around the turn of the century:

  The fifth tableau was intended as a striking allegory to modern Finland: Mother Finland with her children, sitting in the snow and surrounded by the genies of Death, Frost, Hunger and War, during the Great Northern War. Performing such an offensive tableau—intended as a “memory” of what Russia was all about—was a striking choice and a fascinating example of how the previously complaisant and loyal Finns now could be served anti-Russian sentiments without half the public leaving the theatre in outrage.17

  In the sixth tableau, however, the depiction of Russia’s involvement was subtly yet significantly transformed. Titled “Suomi Herää!” (Finland, awake!) it evoked the nineteenth century through a series of historical figures who had contributed to Finland’s discovery of its own identity as a nation: “These included Czar Alexander II, the poet Johan Ludvig Runeberg, Johan Vilhelm Snellman inspiring his students to think of the possibility of Finnish independence, and Elias Lönnrot transcribing the runes of the epic, Kalevala.”18

  In order to understand the presence of such a seemingly unlikely figure as the Russian emperor Alexander II in the score that gave rise to a work as patriotic as Finlandia, it is necessary to look back at the circumstances of Finland’s incorporation into the Russian Empire. Over the course of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, Russia had been involved in a number of conflicts with Poland and Sweden centering on political and economic control over the Baltic region. With its recently founded capital, St. Petersburg, vulnerable to attack from the West, Russia sought to incorporate territory that would provide it with an adequate form of defense. To this end, Russia invaded Finland in February 1808, with Tsar Alexander I declaring his intention to annex the Finnish territories that had been part of the Swedish kingdom since the thirteenth century. By the end of the year, Finland was conquered, and in 1809 it was formally declared a Grand Duchy of the Russian Empire. Russia’s imperial expansion did not, however, immediately lead to a period of Russification. Alexander was wary of Napoleon’s ambitions (despite his support for Russia’s attack on Sweden) and needed to guarantee Finland’s loyalty in the event of any conflict with France. As Edward Thaden argues:

  Russia’s position was not secure unless she could count on the cooperation of local native elites in newly annexed areas. To assure such cooperation, Russia allowed them to enjoy certain rights and privileges as long as they remained loyal to the tsar and with the implied understanding that they would maintain a well-regulated society arranged into traditional social orders.19

  Russia itself was a multiethnic, multinational, multilinguistic empire, and its constituent elements enjoyed considerable de facto autonomy, not least because the empire’s central administration was weak, and government across huge geographical distances was far from easy. It was also the case, as Janet Hartley has suggested, that “making Finland a Grand Duchy rather than directly incorporating the country into the Russian Empire would possibly also make Russia’s gain more palatable to other European powers.”20 Within this context, Alexander’s charter to the Finnish Diet at Porvoo (Borgå) in 1809 appeared to grant Finland considerable self-rule:

  Having by the will of the Almighty entered into possession of the Grand Duchy of Finland, We have hereby seen fit once more to confirm and ratify the religion, basic laws, rights and privileges which each estate of the said Duchy in particular and all subjects therein resident, both high and low, have hitherto enjoyed according to its constitution, promising to maintain them inviolably in full force and effect.21

  Even before convening a Diet (itself a striking gesture toward Finnish autonomy), Alexander had appeared to view Finland not just as an administrative province of Russia but as a nation in its own right. The manifesto proclaimed in June 1808 on the union of Finland with the Russian Empire contained the famous claim: “The inhabitants of conquered Finland are to be numbered from this time forth amongst the peoples under the scepter of Russia and with them shall make up the Empire.”22 Yet exactly what Alexander understood by such words as constitution, basic laws, and rights was open to considerable interpretation, as Hartley notes: “He was very careless in his use of potentially loaded words and concepts in his conversations and correspondence. . . . To some extent Alexander was simply using words and phrases which were fashionable at the time without much awareness of their potential significance.”23 More over, the practical implications of his words also went unelaborated: “Finland received no written constitution (nor any agreement about the form of government at all), no declaration of the rights of man, but simply a vague acknowledgment of the status quo.”24

  Yet what mattered about Alexander’s statements was not what particular form of constitution he had subscribed to, but the very fact that he appeared to have agreed to limit the exercise of autocracy at all. Within this semantic, legal, and institutional vacuum, Finland soon began to enjoy considerable practical autonomy, even if this remained the gift of the Russian autocrat rather than an inviolable constitutional right. Indeed, having established an autonomous administrative structure for the Grand Duchy, Alexander—perhaps unwillingly—established the conditions for its political development, both as a nation and as a state, in ways that would have been impossible under Swedish rule. Ironically, Russian autocracy may even have been advantageous to the development of Finnish autonomy, since the Governor-General—the tsar’s personal representative in Finland and the only Russian official in the Grand Duchy—was the sole provincial governor not required to answer to the Governing Senate, the State Council, or the various ministries that exercised authority in Russia itself. Moreover, the constitutional position of Finland, and indeed of all the recently incorporated Baltic realms, was of direct interest to thinkers in Russia, too. Alexander had a r
eputation as something of a liberal reformer and, together with his adviser Mikhail Speransky, drew conclusions about the possible future of Russia from the social and political situation in the western provinces:

  Alexander . . . believed that Russia had much to learn from Finland, Poland, and the Baltic provinces. The free peasants from Finland, the emancipation of the peasants in the Duchy of Warsaw in 1807, the emancipation of the Estonian and Latvian peasants in the three Baltic provinces between 1816 and 1819, and the Polish Constitutional Charter of 1815 all seemed to offer examples that Russia herself might follow.25

  Russian interest in Finland was not always so high-minded, however, and one of Russia’s primary interests lay in isolating Finland from Swedish influence. Partly this was a question of securing Finland’s loyalty, as Fewster observes: “The early Emperors were well aware of the importance of distancing the Finns from their previous Swedish identity and heritage: fostering or promoting an alternative Finnish nationalism was one way of combating possible revanchism and rebellious sentiments.”26 Respect for Finland’s status may also have been a question of defending Russia’s own autocratic makeup, with the Grand Duchy acting as a cordon sanitaire designed to protect Russia from European influence, as Michael Branch argues: “Russia isolated itself against the virus of Swedish constitutional structures and of the liberality of Swedish society by making Finland in 1809 virtually a self-governing country.”27